<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Broken Pretty Things by Still_beating_heart</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940863">Broken Pretty Things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart'>Still_beating_heart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Triggers Apply, Gay Sex, I guess because none of my other ships wanted to have junkyard sex, M/M, Nobody reads tags anyway, Sex, Why Did I Write This?, canon warnings apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:16:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940863</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically Steve fucks Billy against the bus in the junkyard.  I'd say it's porn without plot but I'm not much of a porn writer.  So it's sex, yes, and there's not much plot, but it's not exactly porn even though it's sex.  And it's not exactly flowers and romance kind of sex either.</p><p>----------</p><p>It’s no secret that Billy wants to take Steve apart.  Wants to lay him raw and bare in the dying light of day.</p><p>It’s no secret that Billy likes to destroy pretty things.  It’s no secret that Steve is a pretty thing.</p><p>It’s only a secret that Billy wants to be destroyed by a pretty thing.  That Billy wants to be the one peeled back layer by twisted layer.  Until every layer is bare, raw, and aching.  </p><p>----------</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove &amp; Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>131</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Broken Pretty Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There are some canon themes that apply so if cannon themes trigger you then don't read this.  My life advice is that if fiction triggers you then don't read fiction.  Otherwise, step right up and enjoy the ride...</p><p>Also be warned that it's been a few months since I've watched the show and I'm probably getting characterizations wrong and I don't even remember if the bus was a yellow school bus or not, but well, whatever.  It's fiction.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Broken Pretty Things</p><p> </p><p>It’s no secret Billy Hargrove likes pretty things.  It’s no secret pretty things like Billy Hargrove.</p><p>Billy likes to take pretty things apart.  Flay them open, expose everything ugly that lies beneath.  </p><p>Billy likes to take pretty things apart.  Sometimes he even puts them back together.  But only when they serve a purpose.  </p><p>It’s no secret that Steve Harrington is a pretty thing.  It’s no secret by the lines of his face, the perfect quaff of hair, every dip and indentation of his body.  It’s no secret by his smile.  It’s no secret by his attitude.  It’s no secret by his natural athleticism.  </p><p>It’s no secret that he practices his swing in the junkyard.  It’s no secret that he practices with a spiked bat.  It’s no secret that he destroys anything and everything he can with that bat.  It’s no secret that he’s scared.  Scared of the creatures that go bump in the night.  Scared of the life he’s bound to lead.  </p><p>It’s no secret that Billy wants to take Steve apart.  Wants to lay him raw and bare in the dying light of day.</p><p>It’s no secret that Billy likes to destroy pretty things.  It’s no secret that Steve is a pretty thing.</p><p>It’s only a secret that Billy wants to be destroyed by a pretty thing.  That Billy wants to be the one peeled back layer by twisted layer.  Until every layer is bare, raw, and aching.  </p><p>Billy takes a slow drag, watches the swing.  Appreciating the lines in Steve’s sweat soaked back, t-shirt clinging to his every move, as he hits to the fence.  The proverbial fence.  </p><p>“And the crowd goes wild,” Billy leans back against the smashed Firebird at his back, leaving his cig clamped between his teeth as he slow claps dramatically against Steve’s glare.  </p><p>It’s no secret that Steve is more than a pretty thing.  It’s no secret with the fading light of the sun.  And the droplets of sweat on his forehead.  With the still perfectly quaffed hair.</p><p>“What do you want?” his grip on the bat tightens.  </p><p>Billy smirks, hands up at his side, “from you?” everything, “nothing,” patting the Firebird at his back, “from her?  Maybe her hubcaps,” removing the cig from his lips, letting the smoke roll slowly skyward.</p><p>Billy can still feel the cracking of Steve’s bones against his fists.  He can hear the splitting of his flesh.  The wet smacking of the blood from Steve’s pretty face and Billy’s split knuckles.  When he thinks of it, his mouth quirks up at the corner, his eyes lose contact though Steve’s remain.  </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye he sees Steve motion towards the car, a ‘get on with it’ motion.  It’s a goddamn bluff and they both know it.  The hubcaps, the car, the bat, the rivalry.  The whole goddamn thing is a bluff.  </p><p>Billy takes another slow drag, watching the smoke swirl over the image of Steve’s face like a cloud blocking out the sun.  He flicks the cig away when the smoke clears but Steve’s gaze doesn’t.</p><p>“Wanna hit me?” Billy wonders, squaring up his posture, “wanna swing that bat at my head?  Hmm?  See how it’d work on a human skull?” he takes a few steps forward.  Stalking like he’s the predator and Steve is the prey.  Steve doesn’t budge, doesn’t flinch.  His grip on the bat unchanging.  His stance firm, his eyes giving nothing away as they linger on Billy’s, “go ‘head then.  Have at it,” he bends forward, about bat length’s distance from Steve, “go ‘head.  Might make your life easier King Steve, might get your throne back, huh?” extending his hands, palm up, arms straight out from his sides.  A mock bow, “come on Steve.  Do it.  Do it!  Make me feel somethin’!”</p><p>Billy’s not sure when the last time was he felt something.  Something good.  Something bad.  Anything at all.  Something pretty.  Something pretty beneath his fingertips.  Something pretty like a package under a fancy Christmas tree, begging to ripped open, torn every which way.  All the shiny wrappings and decorations thrown to the side.  Tossed in the trash.  Nothing remaining but the truth of what’s inside.  Billy wants to see what’s inside.</p><p>“Come on Steve!  Hit me!”</p><p>—————</p><p>His roar echoes throughout the junkyard.  Bouncing off all the aluminum, steel, American made and foreign alike.  All ending their life here.  Here in the ground.  Sinking into the ground with every passing day.  </p><p>Sinking into the ground.  No longer moving forward.  No longer moving sideways.  No longer moving in between.  No longer moving.  Sinking.  </p><p>Steve is sinking.  Just like all the old junk thrown aside.  Deemed unworthy. </p><p>His fingers are going numb on the bat.  The sweat is starting to dry on his neck in the low howling breeze as more salty moisture beads on his hairline, his upper lip.  </p><p>He’s not sure what he wants.  He could end this.  So quickly.  So easily.  But it’s not about that.  It’s not about killing.  It’s only about surviving.  Doing anything to survive.  </p><p>“No,” he hears it exit his own mouth.  Foreign and strange on the tip of his tongue.  But steady.  Certain.</p><p>Billy’s shoulders are tense.  His body a taut line of muscle and anger.  Always.  Steve can hear his breath shake.  His inhale catch and a word linger in his throat but it doesn’t exit his lips.  His hair is spun gold, catching rays of the late afternoon sun.  Hell, maybe evening by now.  Nearly night.  </p><p>Nearly night.  It’s nearly night.  Steve can feel it in his bones.  Like the Upside Down.  That damp chill gripping his spine, seeping through his insides, rotting from the inside out.  He’s certain of it.  </p><p>He wakes in cold sweats most nights.  Choking on screams and drowning in fear.  He doesn’t know how to fix it.  How to fix himself.  But he does know that hitting Billy, that bloodying his fists and breaking his knuckles won’t fix it, “it won’t fix it.  It won’t fix anything.”</p><p>——————</p><p>Billy doesn’t want to be fixed.  Billy wants to be broken glass.  Sharp shards glinting in the dying sunlight.  Billy wants to be ground down to specks of color in an ocean of sand.  Billy wants to be miniscule.  Meaningless.  Unnoticeable.  Billy wants to be ripped apart.  </p><p>“It’s not meant to be fixed,” fisting the collar of Steve’s grey jacket.  His jaw clenches, Billy watches it happen up close.  Breathing his air and smelling his sweat.  His eyes lock onto Billy’s.  There’s no fear.  Steely determination, “maybe it’s meant to be destroyed,” Billy wants to be destroyed.  </p><p>He can feel it breaking.  Little pieces at first.  Like an avalanche about to let loose.  His nose brushes the tip of Steve’s and he watches something flicker in Steve’s eyes.  A flash of fear, so raw and so deep, dark and horrifying.  Then it’s gone.  It’s gone and Steve’s hands are on Billy’s hips.  Walking into him, pressing dents into denim.  </p><p>He hears the bat hit the dirt when his back contacts the side of a broken down bus.  Steve doesn’t stop walking into him until he’s flush with his chest.  If the deep ache in Billy’s core could spread, it’d be pulsing though Steve.  Maybe it is.  </p><p>There are no words.  There is no contact of lips on lips.  Why would there be?  There’s no question of consent.  There’s just lust.  A soul devouring need to be broken.  </p><p>——————</p><p>Steve’s never looked at Billy before.  Truly looked at him.  He’s sized him up.  He’s felt the weight of his punch.  He’s taken his shoves.  He’s taken his taunts.  He’s taken a lot from Billy in the brief time he’s known him.</p><p>And now.  Now he wants to take something else.  </p><p>His breath stinks of cigarettes and his hair of Aqua-Net.  Calvin Klein Obsession wafts to Steve’s nostrils when his hands grasp the hem of Billy’s shirt, yanking it over his head. The lines are thick, strong, hard.  There was Nancy.  Delicate.  Thin, narrow and breakable.  Billy isn’t breakable.  </p><p>Nothing about Billy is breakable.  </p><p>Billy’s hands are tugging Steve’s jacket down his arms, and Steve’s are popping the button on Billy’s skin tight acid-washed jeans.  </p><p>Steve doesn’t want to taste Billy.  He doesn’t want to soften him with kisses and touches.  He doesn’t want to brush over his lips and skim his tongue.  He doesn’t want to rise a line of goosebumps on his collarbone.  He doesn’t want to stroke his hair or feel his breath harsh and heavy on his neck.  He doesn’t want to use delicacy.  </p><p>Steve’s taken a lot from Billy.  His unbridled anger.  His jealousy.  His blazing glares.  His violence.  </p><p>Now Steve wants to take something else.</p><p>——————</p><p>Billy’s forehead keeps meeting Steve’s with every yank on clothing separating body heat from body heat, separating flesh from flesh.  Posturing for fighting or posturing for fucking, there’s not much difference.  </p><p>Less layers, one less layer and he’s bare on top.  He’s warm and he’s pretty.  He’s pretty.  And for once, Billy doesn’t want to destroy something pretty.  </p><p>His hands fall down the expanse of Steve’s back, find his wallet.  Nylon and Velcro and a rubber behind the ID.  He pushes the wallet back into his pocket, pushing the denim down in the process.  He feels Steve’s hardened cock spring free from the blue jean prison, an instant twinge of longing shoots through his core.  </p><p>Billy likes to take pretty things apart.  But tonight.  Tonight Billy wants to be taken apart.</p><p>——————</p><p>Steve’s breath falters when Billy slaps the condom into his hand and turns.  Offering his ass.  His hands rise, bracing himself on the bus.  The acid-wash is pulled down to his thighs, golden bronzed flesh meeting pale smooth cheeks that Steve takes a moment to admire.  Maybe he’s not sure how to do this. Maybe there’s no maybe about that.  </p><p>Billy’s right hand falls from the bus, pauses by his mouth.  He spits on it, rolls it around on his fingers and then it drops to his ass.  Slides down the crack, his back arches and his middle finger presses knuckle deep with a hissed gasp escaping his lips.  </p><p>Steve’s hands are shaking, the condom wrapper hard to rip, his heart lodged in his throat.  He bites his tongue, fighting the urge to smash Billy’s face against the bus.  To beat him bloody and leave him in the junkyard with his pants around his knees.  </p><p>Instead, his fingers close around Billy’s wrist, jerking his hand away from his ass.  Pushing it against his lower back, watching the left fingers grasping white-knuckled to the roof-line of the bus.  He wonders briefly if he should add spit to the already lubricated condom, but then he remembers Billy’s heavy fist against his jaw and he pushes himself in to the sound of Billy’s grunt.  </p><p>He watches the muscles in his back flex, flush and then relax when Steve rolls his hips side to side, brushing pelvis to asscheeks in half circles and working more space for himself inside Billy.  Left hand rising, fingers pinching down at Billy’s throat, not to stunt his breath, not to threaten but to feel.  Feel his breath and his swallow harsh under his palm.  The bob of his Adam’s Apple.  The sound it makes in Steve’s ears as he thrusts deep.  </p><p>The feel of Billy’s wrist in Steve’s grasp, pushing against his lower back, right at the arch of it.  Where it’s curved to cup the deep golden hues of the falling sun.  </p><p>It looks right.  It looks right somehow.  It feels right to take this.  Take.  Take.  Take.</p><p>“Take it,” he hears Billy hiss.  </p><p>Steve’s fingers force his head to turn.  Forehead leaning into his curly hair, a curtain between Steve’s mouth and Billy’s ear.  A curtain through which Steve’s breath is moving, parting the strands and circling the arch, caressing the lobe and breezing into his head.  He doesn’t want to say anything to Billy.  He doesn’t want to tell him he’s pretty or assure him that he’s doing fine, he doesn’t want to ask him if he’s okay, if this is okay, if it’s too much or too little, if it’s too fast or too slow.  He doesn’t care.  </p><p>Steve wants to take. </p><p>——————</p><p>Steve’s next thrust moves them both forward, Billy’s head knocking off the window frame.  He feels the metal contact his flesh and hears himself laugh.  Breath harsh in his ear, sending waves of tingles up his spine.  </p><p>Billy’s flesh is being peeled back.  Layer by twisted layer.  Steve burning through every nerve and coursing though every vein.  </p><p>The grip on his neck releases.  The hand flattens on the frame of the bus window and the next thrust smashes his temple against it.  Warm, bones, sinew, flesh, veins.  Layers and twisted layers.  He’d laugh if not for the ragged broken feeling in his throat.  </p><p>Steve wants to fix things.  Billy wants to tear them apart.  </p><p>Billy wants to tear himself apart.  He wants to use Steve to do it.  </p><p>Steve’s thrusts are growing brutal, harsh and everything Billy wants.  But his hands are gentle.  Even when they were gripping.  Because Steve wants to fix things.  Steve wants to hold broken things together. </p><p>Billy can’t be held together anymore.  </p><p>Billy can’t be fixed.  </p><p>There’s an ache at the base of Billy’s spine.  And a soothing breath against his ear.  His body wants to react, wants to punch and kick and smash his way out of Steve’s grasp.  His brain keeps repeating his father’s words.  And his heart keeps getting caught in his throat, beating the rhythm of Steve’s breaths.  </p><p>There’s burning in his chest, stinging in his eyes, the back of a hand against his temple, body heat against his back and the thrusts calm but remain strong.  The hand on his wrist releases and slides down his thigh, giving it a squeeze as it trembles, pushing it outwards to urge a wider stance.  Wider until Billy’s chest is pressed against the bus, his cock aching for friction against the cold metal wall.  Wider until Steve’s chest is against his shoulder-blades.  Wider until both of Steve’s hands are flat against the yellow surface, and Billy’s forehead is resting against the triangle made by his thumbs and forefingers.  </p><p>And then his breath, Steve’s breath, is against the back of Billy’s neck.  His face is in Billy’s hair.  </p><p>Billy wanted to be taken apart.  He wanted to be taken apart raw and dirty.  He wanted to be throbbing, bleeding and desperate for breath.  He wanted shattered glass in his mouth and sharp rocks in his gut.  He wanted blood on his teeth and bruises on his flesh.</p><p>Billy wanted to be taken apart with violence.</p><p>But Billy’s being taken apart with human touch.  Human tenderness.  And it’s so much worse than anything that’s ever been done to him.  </p><p>——————</p><p>The sun has fallen.  The night is whispering around them.  The fear is gripping Steve’s belly.  It quivers and his hands slide off the bus, finding Billy’s wrists.  Wrapping tight around them.  Drawing both sets of arms across Billy’s chest.  </p><p>Billy’s hands cross over Steve’s, fingertips gracing his knuckles where they’re bent.  When his eyes close it’s the demo-dogs in his lids, when they open it’s Billy’s hair.  When the demogorgon growls in his ear, it’s Billy’s grunted gasp that breaks the silence in the air.  </p><p>When it’s the dark trap of the Steve’s nightmares circling him in the darkness fallen in the junkyard, it’s the light hues of Billy’s golden blond that keep him present.  </p><p>When the ground shakes at his feet and he’s certain it’s an entrance to the Upside Down, it’s the heat of Billy surrounding him and the clenching tight pulses around him that keep him here.  Here.  </p><p>His right hand releases Billy’s wrist, his jaw clenches and his fist slams against the bus, forehead jammed against the back of Billy’s head as everything swirls into Upside Down and Rightside Up and every which way possible.  </p><p>Billy’s right.  It’s not meant to be fixed.  Nothing is meant to be fixed.  </p><p>But by the time Steve drags himself into bed it isn’t the cold paralyzing grip of the Upside Down and the demogorgon or the demo-dogs that snake their way into his sleeping world.  It’s the carving of muscles in Billy’s back, it’s the tight knit tendons in his shoulders, it’s the looping curls covering his ear, and it’s the echo of his pleasured guttural groan that softens the descent of sleep.</p><p>If the world goes strange by morning, the flames lingering inside Steve’s body will torch his way through his last night in the Rightside Up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Poisoned Well</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Steve’s darkness born of the Upside Down.</p>
<p>Billy’s born of life in an imperfect world.</p>
<p>Steve’s demons are in a different universe.  </p>
<p>Billy’s are human.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There was a request for a follow-up.  And I guess I haven't learned my lesson yet to leave a one-shot alone :)</p>
<p>Warning: this writer is blue.  Navy blue.  I'll write a turquoise chapter when I'm ready.  </p>
<p>I think Steve is canonically lighter than I'm painting him here.  And I think Billy is a character that would be interesting to paint in all the hues.  But I still have not rewatched, so there are surely many mischaracterizations.  </p>
<p>Canon warnings still apply.  There's also mention of suicidal thoughts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A Poisoned Well </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Upside Down is like glaucoma.  A silent thief of light.  The darkness creeping in around the edges.  Slowly at first.  Until everything is gone.  Everything that used to be light.  Is gone.</p>
<p>It’s three days later when Billy shows up at Steve’s front door with a bag slung over his shoulder, bruises on his face that look maybe a day old.  He looks like he hasn’t slept.  </p>
<p>Neither has Steve.  It’s the darkness.  The shadows along the edges.  </p>
<p>He leans against the porch support beam, takes a long drag off his cig.  Smirks as he flicks it onto the perfectly manicured grass, “got a guest room in your palace King Steve?”</p>
<p>Steve’s darkness born of the Upside Down.</p>
<p>Billy’s born of life in an imperfect world.</p>
<p>Steve’s demons are in a different universe.  </p>
<p>Billy’s are human.  </p>
<p>He could say no.  He could close the door.  He could tell him to leave.  </p>
<p>But there’s a flinch when he runs his finger under his nose.  Knuckles clean of cracks and bruises.  Whoever hit him, he never hit back.  Maybe it’s this knowledge alone that makes Steve step back.  Move aside and wait for him to walk in.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Steve’s life should be perfect.  Billy thinks in a place like this.  HIs life should be perfect.  A nice home.  Money.  Parents.  Two parents.  </p>
<p>There’s something empty.  In here.  With all the photos framed and the sport’s trophies on the mantle.  Like a broken promise.  Cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon.  All the ‘I’ll make it to the next game, son’s and the ‘another late night at the office, honey’s.  </p>
<p>Steve has a palace.  But the halls feel empty.  </p>
<p>Billy remembers his mother.  He’ll always remember his mother.  The only soft hand.  The only gentle voice.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>The sun is sagging low on the horizon.  Exhausted and empty.  Fading into darkness.  </p>
<p>Steve walks up the stairs.  The weight of two worlds on his shoulders.  The weight he never asked for.  The weight he’s not sure he can carry.  </p>
<p>The darkness looming.  The cloak on his back.  Heavy and black.  </p>
<p>He can hear Billy behind him.  His memory can smell his hair against his nose.  Can feel his back beneath his hands.</p>
<p>Billy’s an indestructible force.   Billy with the bruises on his face.   And the split in his lip.  </p>
<p>He pushes the door open.  Listening to the wood against the shag carpet.  Swish.  Hearing Billy behind him.  Quiet but not silent.  Nothing is silent.  Silence is a lie.  </p>
<p>The light is getting smaller.  The darkness is getting bigger.  Until there’s barely a circle of it in the very center of Steve’s vision as he takes Billy’s bag off his shoulder.  Rough.  Tossing it to the center of the bed.  A room that was maybe supposed to belong to a sibling once upon a time.  Once upon a time when his parents were still parents instead of roommates who occasionally crossed paths in their place of residence.  </p>
<p>“Here,” he speaks.   And realizes it’s the first thing he’s said.  He’s certain the last thing he said to Billy was, ‘it won’t fix anything’.  He’s certain there are no words now.  He points down the hall, “bathroom is that way.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t leave just yet.  He’s not sure what he’s waiting for.  It’s not an apology.  Or an explanation.  Not an invitation.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s the sunshine yellow of Billy’s hair.  Maybe it’s the set of his shoulders.  And the way he felt when his arms were wrapped around his chest.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s the summer sky in Billy’s eyes.  When they flit over and land on Steve’s for just a moment.  Only one.  </p>
<p>Steve backs away.  Pulls the door shut.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>This room is everything a room in a palace decorated by a suburban wife should be.  And it’s disgusting.  </p>
<p>The moon paves the path outside.  Billy walks it slowly.  Smoking a cig, watching the smoke cloud rise, slide over the stars, and dissipate.  Before he does it again.  </p>
<p>The pool.  Throwing reflections of Spring’s promise.  Summer, Summer is the promise whispered on the damp lips of Spring.  </p>
<p>Summer.  Billy takes a deep breath.  Remembers his mother.  He always remembers his mother.  And how she left.  Without him.</p>
<p>He remembers California.  Where it’s always Summer.  Where the surf is the freedom.  Where the waves are the calm.  </p>
<p>He’s sitting on the ledge of the pool.  Feet in the water.  A hand reaching out to trace the transparent surface, the lights beneath.  The incandescent glow.  He watches his hand rise from the pool, water glossing his palm.  Now it belongs to the moon.  The light, gentle glow of the moon.  </p>
<p>His father’s voice is echoing in his mind.  Always.  When he pulls his shirt off over his head.  The aching in his ribs.  His back.  His face.  Knowing there are bruises.  Like an abstract painting on his flesh.  Father’s love.  Father’s hate.  </p>
<p>The aching skin hisses when he lowers his body into the chlorinated water.  A burn that he deserves.  The he earned.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Steve leaves the light on.  Always.  And it’s still not enough.  That stupid childish nightlight to ward off the nightmares.  </p>
<p>He turns to his side, opens his eyes when the demo-dogs are climbing on his chest.  He sits.  Feet on the carpet.  Bare feet on soft nylon, poly.  A deep breath.  Fingers bent around the mattress.  Pressing dents.  His fingertips remember the dents he pressed into Billy’s wrists.</p>
<p>His body leads.  Without his mind telling him a thing.  His body leads.  </p>
<p>The guest room is empty.  The house is empty.  Another conference for his father.  Another night out with the girls for his mother.  No one is fooling anyone.  Not anymore.</p>
<p>Steve is alone is a house full of things.</p>
<p>His body leads and his mind follows.  It doesn’t stop until his feet are on the ledge of the pool.  The pool where Billy’s form is curled into a ball and sunk to the bottom.  Bubbles slowly escaping his lips.  Rising to the surface.  Bursting.  </p>
<p>Steve is a shadow.  Billy is lit by the pool lights.  He is a boulder on the bottom of the sea.  And Steve is a cardboard boat.  </p>
<p>Disintegrating into nothing.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Maybe a dam broke.  The night his fists met flesh and bone, again and again on that pretty face.  Maybe it was bricks and mortar falling into a river.  Raging through rapids and smashing off rocks.  Cascading down a waterfall.  </p>
<p>Maybe a dam broke.  The night he felt Steve’s breath against his ear.  His warmth at his back.  His hands around his wrists.  </p>
<p>Maybe a dam broke.  When his father raged.  When his fists met flesh.  And bone.  Over.  And over.  </p>
<p>Maybe a dam broke.</p>
<p>Billy only surfaces when he can no longer hold the pressure in his lungs at bay.  The need to breathe.  The involuntary human function.  He breaks the surface.  And maybe the dam breaks.  </p>
<p>His eyes landing on Steve’s form.  Standing on the ledge of the pool.  Appearing like an apparition.  Or a man who’s mind is fighting an invisible pull to jump.  To find the highest ledge.  And jump.  </p>
<p>“What’s it like?” he hears himself wonder.  Pushing his hair out of his face with his hand, blowing droplets from his lips.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>To be the king of an empty court.  To lose when you’re used to winning.  To have children in the place of friends.  To have a spiked bat in the place of a childhood dream.</p>
<p>“The Upside Down.”</p>
<p>His face tilts.  The moon and the man-made lights of the pool fighting for space on every hollow and every line.</p>
<p>“Not that I believe any of the shit those little nerds talk about.”</p>
<p>Steve’s eyes don’t shift off his face.  But something shifts in those eyes when he whispers, “dark.”</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Tonight, his eyes are lazy.  Steve has never seen it before.  Billy’s eyes.  Usually crazed.  But tonight they’re lazy, open.  He’s hiding nothing.  He’s got nothing to hide behind.  Steve has seen him now.  He’s seen him now.  </p>
<p>“If you believe that sort of thing,” Steve shrugs, he thinks his lips might be trying to smile.  Might be trying to crack a joke.  Jokes feel raw.  Tiring.  So he sinks to the edge of the pool.  The night is chilled.  The goosebumps feel permanent regardless of weather.  The breeze on the back of his neck always the darkness.  Always a reminder.</p>
<p>Billy’s hands are flat on the surface of the pool.  Fingers pressing ripples into the water.  </p>
<p>“I think I’m afraid of dying,” he admits.  Quietly.  Like it’s a secret.  Like it somehow makes him different than any other living creature.</p>
<p>“I think I’m afraid of living,” Billy responds.  Barely above a whisper.  It’s honest.  Even if his mouth is twisting in a smile.  A smile that Steve always thought was a threat.  But tonight there’s nothing threatening about him.  The water dripping down his face, leaving it’s kiss on his skin.  Steve doesn’t want to kiss Billy.  He doesn’t want to hold his hand.  Or whisper sweet words into his ear.  </p>
<p>Steve wants to make Billy live.  He wants to make him feel something more.  Something more than the bruises on his skin.  And the blood in his mouth.  He wants him to feel.  Feel.  </p>
<p>Feel hands on flesh that aren’t fists.  Hear words against his ear that aren’t threats.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Billy stands his ground.  In the middle of the pool as Steve drops off the edge.  Into waist deep water.  His eyes echoing the reflections off the water as he nears.  His eyes not leaving Billy’s.  </p>
<p>Billy takes a deep breath.  He allows the chlorine and smells of the Spring night in a yard in the suburbs, he allows them to be overtaken by the smell of Steve. Steve, who isn’t stopping.  Walking through the water like he’s parting the sea.  And maybe once, he did.</p>
<p>He does’t speak.  Doesn’t stop moving.  Not until he’s nearly against Billy’s bare chest.  </p>
<p>He could clench his fist.  He could feel bone on bone and blood on blood.  He could hear splintering of will.  Loss of control.  He could let it.  Let rage and hurt and confusion take the place of any humanity that’s left inside him.  He could let it.  So easily.</p>
<p>There’s a sadness that lingers in Steve’s eyes.  In his smile.  </p>
<p>He could hit him.  He could shove him.  He could hold him under.  He could kill him.  And maybe he’d feel something then.  Maybe Billy would feel something then.  </p>
<p>But he doesn’t.  The numb is the shield.  The anger is the armor.  </p>
<p>And Steve’s hands on his wrists as he pressed them against his chest started burning holes through that armor.  </p>
<p>He’s dangerously close now.  His eyes reflecting the moon off the surface of the pool.  And the incandescence from beneath the surface.  Billy won’t deny that Steve’s pretty.  He’s a pretty thing.  Billy likes to break pretty things.  But right now, in all the dim lights sparkling diamonds like a jewelry store in Steve’s eyes, Billy wonders if maybe he’s beautiful.  </p>
<p>And he hates himself for it.  </p>
<p>His breath stuck in his throat.  His fingers locked open, unable to make a fist.  Unable to make a move.  His body in the water is different.  Different than his body on land.  In water where he knows who he is.  And his father’s bruises can’t change that.  </p>
<p>In the water where Steve is impossibly close.  He can feel his exhale on his cheek.  Meeting the droplets that the breeze and the night air haven’t dried yet.  </p>
<p>Billy is a broken vase.  The moisture seeping through the cracks from the inside out.  When Steve’s hand rises from the water.  Palm meeting jaw.  Thumb meeting cheek.  Sliding over the skin in some lame attempt to wipe it off.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>He doesn’t flinch when Steve’s thumb slides across the broken skin on his cheekbone.  For a brief twisted moment he wants to press the swirls of his fingertips against the speckled mark.  </p>
<p>When his fingers nudge into the handle of Billy’s jaw, his lips part.  Steve knows he could shove him off.  He could bust his knuckles against his face.  But he isn’t.  </p>
<p>There was a winter once.  When Steve was a kid.  His parents took a long weekend and they went North.  For ice and snow.  Steve liked to break the thin layer of ice on the surface of the puddles.  Listening as it shattered beneath his boot.  Watch as it fissured.  </p>
<p>There’s broken ice in Billy’s eyes.  Melting into a puddle.  And leaking around the edges.</p>
<p>He doesn’t need to reassure Billy that he’s good looking.  Or maybe even beautiful.  He doesn’t need to hear that.  He’ll never need to hear that.</p>
<p>But maybe knowing.  Maybe knowing with a silent whisper of touch.  Steve doesn’t want to kiss Billy.  He doesn’t want to taste him.  Or smell him.  Or feel him.  </p>
<p>He just wants Billy to feel.  Feel something.  Anything.  The lightness in the center of darkness.  That tiny round moon being stifled by nighttime surrounding it.  Growing smaller with every passing breath.  </p>
<p>Steve is unarmed.  Maybe he always has been.  Maybe the darkness is something he can’t fight alone.</p>
<p>Steve doesn’t want to kiss Billy.  Doesn’t want to be just another set of lips like the dozens of women that have been just a set of lips.  Steve doesn’t want to kiss Billy.  But the moon is being swallowed by night.  The stars are fading to black.  And the last light in the blanket of sky is dying in the reflections on Billy’s eyes.  </p>
<p>“Enough is enough,” a truce on the tip of his tongue.  A secret now.  They both carry.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>The world is dizzy.  Billy thinks one day he’ll get used to the spin of the Earth beneath his feet.  The pull of the ocean to the moon and the moon to the Earth.  </p>
<p>It’s only bad when he’s standing still.  When the water is rising.  When the world is drowning.  When he is drowning.  </p>
<p>“If you walk away,” he hears himself respond, “I’ll walk away,” and Steve’s hand on his cheek is heating the metal of his armor.  Hot, glowing orange with the permanent brand of his fingertips.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>The moon is laying low in the sky.  Everything metal is a dance of reflections and mirrors.  The earrings hanging from Billy’s ears.  Where Steve is certain if he looked, if he looked close enough he’d see himself there.  The charcoal under his eyes.  The darkness that looms over him.  </p>
<p>Summer is near.  Summer is near.  And he should be happy.  He should be free.  Breaking the shackles of his small town and his parents.  Packing up and leaving for college.  But he’s not smart enough for that.  Or he should be going to school on a basketball scholarship.  But he’s not good enough for that.  A summer internship at his dad’s business.  But he doesn’t deserve that.  </p>
<p>Maybe if he doesn’t leave here by morning he’ll blow out his brains.  Maybe.  He wonders if there would be sorrow.  </p>
<p>He wonders if the freedom of adulthood is a joke. </p>
<p>He wonders if the light in Billy’s eyes is a flame to be extinguished.  </p>
<p>He wonders if the only freedom from life is death.</p>
<p>The only freedom from darkness.</p>
<p>“Don’t walk away,” Steve doesn’t want to see himself in the mirrors.  Steve wants to hear the ice breaking under his heel.  And he wants to see the light until the last possible moment.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>His breath catches.  Holds, and Steve’s lips are suddenly there.  Against Billy’s.  He’s standing still.  And the world is dizzy.  The Upside Down is Rightside Up and he doesn’t know what to believe.  </p>
<p>To believe his heart when it lurches.  And it lurches towards Steve.  To believe the blood in his veins when it rushes.  And it rushes towards Steve.  </p>
<p>To believe his father.  To believe the preaching.  To believe the hate.</p>
<p>Billy doesn’t know what to believe.  </p>
<p>Maybe there’s another dimension.  One where his mother never left.  One where he’s still on the beach.  One where the waves of the ocean meet the tides in his mind.  Where the pull of his body is okay to follow.  Where the rush to live, to feel, to want, to desire, to drown in Steve’s presence is acceptable.  Is truth.  </p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>Maybe kissing Billy is drinking from a poisoned well.  The first taste is addictive.  And the last taste will kill him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So clearly this is happening before S3.  I feel like I may add a rewatch of this to my list and maybe explore them in a real story later.  I'll wrap this up with a turquoise bow at some point.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading.  Hit that kudos button before you leave.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Layer By Beautiful Layer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There’s a low dark cloud on the horizon.  It could mean nothing or it could mean everything.  An ominous darkness lingering behind them, around them.  Just out of reach until it’s too late.  Or it could simply mean a Summer night’s rainstorm.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Layer By Beautiful Layer</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Steve can outrun it.  The silence.  The sadness.  The darkness.  </p><p>But it never lasts long.  </p><p>The spiked bat leaning against the bus.  The wooden bat in his grip.  The ball in Billy’s hand.  He’s smirking.  The sun kissing his hair into golden wheat in the freedom of an open field.  </p><p>Junkyard heaps.  Old bones.  Lost souls.</p><p>The summer blue is chasing away the Spring grey.  </p><p>Steve watches his feet, kicking at the dirt, getting his stance just right.  Twisting his grip on the bat.  Eyes on the ball.  Eyes on Billy.  Eyes on the orange glow of his lit cig.  Eyes on the way his mouth is mocking confidence.  The way his eyes betray his every thought.</p><p>Sun sparked across the ripples of the ocean.  The ocean that Steve has never seen.  Will never see.  He only knows it through Billy’s eyes.  He only knows himself through Billy’s eyes.</p><p>He feels a smile crack the bleakness on his face.  As he watches Billy’s eyes fall to his chest.  His heart sending a whooshing reminder that he’ll walk away.  He’ll walk away when Billy walks away.  When enough is enough.  </p><p>Until then.  He’ll hold on.  Hold onto the last glimmer of light.  Maybe if he holds tight enough it can last.  Maybe if he holds tight enough it can overcome the darkness.  It can reverse the chill.  The cold grip around his neck.  </p><p>A deep breath as Billy starts taunting him.  The taunts of a childhood game.  A ball.  A bat.  A toss.  A swing and, “the crowd goes wild,” a slow clap.  A puff of smoke.  A smirk.  A glint of sunlight in his eyes.  A summer sky that’s permanent.  Unyielding.  Unbent.  Unbroken.</p><p>There’s a darkness that follows Steve.  Follows him everywhere he goes.  But there’s a light.  A light in the sunshine yellow of Billy’s hair.<br/>
A light in the spark of golden hues on the ocean of his eyes.  </p><p>Billy is sunshine.  In a world of darkness.  </p><p>Maybe nothing gold can stay.  But all metals can be polished.  Gold is a soft precious metal.  </p><p>Gold requires special care.  </p><p>—————</p><p>Steve is smiling as Billy smirks at him.  He hit the damn ball over the ledge.  And now they’re out of balls.  </p><p>He’s practicing.  Steve is.  For the day they come back.  The day those things in his nightmares burst into his daytime life again.  When the other dimension where fictional demons are real collides with this one where real demons are fiction.</p><p>When the world goes strange.  </p><p>Billy’s certain the world has always been strange.</p><p>And maybe none stranger than the way his body responds when Steve smiles.  Like he’s drowning but breathing for the first time all at once.  And now he’s got that look, pretending to be shy.  His eyes falling away from Billy’s, eyeing the sky behind him.  There’s a low dark cloud on the horizon.  It could mean nothing or it could mean everything.  An ominous darkness lingering behind them, around them.  Just out of reach until it’s too late.  Or it could simply mean a Summer night’s rainstorm.  </p><p>A Summer night’s rainstorm that’s gently pattering against the glass of the bus windows.  Streaking down the panes of glass.  Smooth and transparent.  The way Billy’s body feels when Steve is lying between his legs looking at him the way he’s looking at him now.  Like he’s something precious.  Billy has never been precious.  But if it’s what Steve wants to believe, then he’ll let him.</p><p>He’s allowed Steve to peel back layer by twisted layer.  Bare and raw in the dying light of day on the floor of the rundown bus left to rot in a junkyard.  Steve has seen every scar and every bruise and every wound under every layer and he’s never flinched as his eyes graze every inch of Billy’s flesh.  He’s never flinched as his fingers peel back another layer with their calloused grace.  He’s never lied about things being okay, about things getting better.  About things being perfect.  No one is dumb enough to believe in perfect.</p><p>Steve’s lips have replaced each layer he’s peeled back.  Placing a bandage of tenderness against every wound.  The tenderness that took Billy apart the very first time.  That very first time here, right here.  This place that has become their own throughout the course of the Summer.  </p><p>This old rundown bus left to sink.  Blankets and pillows pillaged from Steve’s mom’s palace.  Strewn over every surface they’ve fucked on.  Laid bare, raw, and aching.  Peeled back layer by twisted layer.  </p><p>Pretty things.  Pretty things will always be so easy to break.  Pretty is shallow.  Pretty is a layer.  Just one layer.  It’s all the things underneath that Billy wants to expose.  Usually beyond the first layer of pretty it’s wretched, ugly, hideous.  But Steve?  He’s a pretty layer over a tender layer over a beautiful layer.  Over a layer that’s seen horrors in another dimension he can’t talk about in this one, and he can’t outrun either.  That dark layer like a solid anchor inside him.  </p><p>His lips are warm.  His tongue is wicked as it twists with Billy’s inside his mouth.  His back is damp with sweat.  Arms circling Billy’s body, hands flat on his shoulder-blades.  Those hands that have coaxed breath and words and pleasure out of Billy that he didn’t know himself capable of.  </p><p>There’s a part of Billy that will always know, always know, that at some point he’ll walk away.  He’ll walk away.  The future might be that rain cloud overhead, it moves, and it cries.  Dousing the land beneath with tears.  It’ll clear, it’ll brighten, the stars will break through.  The moon will throw echoes of the years across the dampened Earth.  The tears will dry.  And he’ll have walked away.</p><p>But for now, “don’t walk away,” is the first thing he’s said since they propped the bats against the door of the bus.  Since they undressed slowly and kissed passionately.  Since the blankets found their way beneath them and Steve’s hand pillowed Billy’s head until the feathers and fluff of a manmade item took over.  </p><p>——————</p><p>Billy’s eyes are bright.  His body is warm.  Beneath Steve.  Around Steve.  He is bright in a world of dark.  </p><p>“I only walk away if you walk away,” his eyes flash with a crack of lightning and his nose nudges against Steve’s.  Urging him to lean back in.  Let the world outside stay outside.  Let the darkness run it’s course.  </p><p>Steve should be afraid in a place like this.  The demo-dogs.  It was here.  And with Billy.  Billy who beat him bloody.  Steve should be afraid.  But he’s not.  </p><p>A place of dimensional terrors has become a safe haven.  Pillows and blankets to cushion and protect.  Billy, an immovable destructive force, calm inside.  Human inside. </p><p>Smirking up at Steve from the embrace of an overly soft pillow, “for a guy who doesn’t wanna kiss me, you do a lot of it Harrington.”</p><p>The next flash of lightning glints off his earring.  And the shudder that races through Steve’s body is the combination of thunder rolling and his hips snapping.  Wiping the smirk off Billy’s face with one simple movement.  The bright lazy sky of his eyes is clouded in pink lids and delicate lashes, his breath exits in a grunted gasp.  A sound that Steve has grown to ache for.  A sound somewhere between pleasure and pain.  Somewhere between life and death.  Somewhere between the Rightside Up and the Upside Down.  Somewhere that Steve could stay forever if Billy would let him.  </p><p>Being with Billy is like riding a Big Wheel down the hill into the cul-de-sac.  Peddling until it’s going too fast and his mouth is dry and the front wheel is shaking.  Turning into the driveway on two wheels.  Knowing it’ll end in road rash.  But holding on until that very last moment.  Only to drag the three-wheeler back up to the top of the hill and do it again.</p><p>A poisoned well is addictive.  </p><p>The sun will go away someday.  Someday the sunshine yellow beneath Steve’s fingertips will fade to grey.  Someday when the Upside Down was just a codeine dream that Steve doesn’t dream anymore.  Someday when the darkness has receded and all that’s left is the bright center of a Summer sky and an ocean of a life lived.  </p><p>—————</p><p>Steve can lay Billy down easy.  He can lay him down hard.</p><p>He lights a cigarette, watches the flick of the lighter glow on Steve’s face where he’s lying on his back.  One hand tucked behind his head, the other flat on his bare stomach.  Moving up and down.  Up and down.  So slow and calm.  The thunder rolling slowly away on the midnight horizon.  </p><p>They’ve taken their time to learn a language.  A new language in the silence.  In the after.  When the lightning is sliding away into the darkness.  When the breath is leveling.  When the smoke is rising in swirls from Billy’s lips.  When Steve’s eyes are reading the lines between smoke signals.  </p><p>When the sweat is drying.  When the poet would be reciting sonnets to the moon above.  The lover would be shedding tears at the alter of forever.  </p><p>In the silence when they don’t have to pretend to just be friends.  When they don’t have to pretend to care what the words mean.  What the letters strung into words strung into sentences to make a point.  Sharpened to a fine lead tip and used as a weapon on a piece of paper.  Scratched into the paint on the locker door.  Scraped along the metal of a bathroom stall.  Slimy with hate and reserved only for people like them.</p><p>Billy watches Steve's hand, lying on his stomach.  The hand that was pressed against Billy’s throat the first time.  Like he wanted to feel the pressure of his breath.  The bob of his Adam’s Apple.  Feel the way his gasps moved in his throat.  </p><p>He watches his hand, as the fingers tap a restless pattern on the smoothness of his glistening skin.  The hand that peels back the layers.  The hand that burns the armor.  The hand that’s smoldered through his shield.  That hand that leaves Billy raw, aching, and so alive.  So alive.  </p><p>He doesn’t watch his own hand.  As it drops from the cig he leaves pinched between his lips.  As it falls over top of Steve’s.  As it presses fingers between fingers.  And waits.  Waits for Steve’s to turn.  Palm to palm.  </p><p>Feeling like braille the words carved into his palm, swirled into his fingertips that have traced every line of Billy’s body.  The words they’re both afraid to say.  The words like, ‘beautiful’, and ‘love’.  The words that couldn’t be taken.  Not by the demons in the Rightside Up.  Not by the demons in the Upside Down.  </p><p>He watches the last few drops of rain sliding down the glass shadow Steve’s face.  As his eyes close.  Fighting the darkness in his lids.  He watches as a deep breath rises his chest.  As it lands in his belly under their linked hands.  As the simple act of holding a hand, of reaching out, of sliding fingers through fingers starts taking Steve apart.  Layer by beautiful layer.  </p><p>His eyes open, the gloss clinging like dew on a dying leaf.  </p><p>——————</p><p>The world could go strange tomorrow.  The world could go strange tonight.  Maybe the world’s always been strange.  </p><p>Maybe they walk away.  Maybe he walks away.  Steve’s never been good at walking away.</p><p>Maybe tomorrow when the sun is a burning ball of brilliance in the Summer sky and the light is making the dark a thing of past lives, maybe tomorrow they’ll walk away together.  Maybe they’ll walk with calloused hand in calloused hand until they become wrinkled and weathered. </p><p>Maybe they'll be walking wrinkled and weathered through a place in between.   A place where the light and the dark dance through each other's paths, making halos out of nothing.  Maybe a place where the Rightside is up and the Upside is down.  And it won't matter which is which.</p><p>Steve feels himself smile, watching the smoke rise from Billy's lips.  Swirl through the bus and slide out the window.  Wafting away on a damp Summer breeze.  Chasing a thunderstorm that's fading in the distance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not sure if that counts as turquoise.  But it's a hopeful ending.  And sometimes that's all we get.  </p><p>Snip, snap, snout this tale is told out.  Thanks friends, take care of yourselves :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you're here, then leave me some kudos (that's the little button on the bottom).  Take mindless negativity elsewhere.  And thanks for reading :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>